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Mr. Tick Tock is not a name that's spoken with respect, only derision. While unknown if he's simply a Privateer, or is actually a Loyalist of the Gentry, it matters not; He's known to have worked with the Others on at least one occasion, and supposedly has had a hand in dismantling at least one Freehold within New Oskana in times past if the rumor mill is accurate. As such, he is not accepted among the Changelings of New Oskana, not that he seems to be a part of their societies in a courtly fashion regardless. Attempts thus far to put an end to him have been foiled; many just seek to avoid his notice entirely until he can be properly captured and dealt with.
As the story goes with him, Mr. Tick Tock literally lives on borrowed time; He makes agreements, pacts, or otherwise does services for the Gentry to extend his life. Supposedly quite old, some say even older than The Bramble Witch, he is said to have sacrificed portions of himself, bit by bit to become more the clockwork horror he now is. A new clockwork mechanism each time that further tangles and reweaves his allotted fate within the Wyrd, leaving less and less of the man behind he once was.
His eyes are said to be nothing more than intricate gears within gears, whirling away as it gauges the life of everything it sees, measuring out it's allotted time so he may use it himself. His flesh, old, withered, preserved rather than truly alive. His blood gone to sand, his heart nothing more than an arcane hourglass. To most he's akin to the Grim Reaper itself, his presence eerily timed, sickle or pistol poised to either cut or complicate ones life.
As the story goes with him, Mr. Tick Tock literally lives on borrowed time; He makes agreements, pacts, or otherwise does services for the Gentry to extend his life. Supposedly quite old, some say even older than The Bramble Witch, he is said to have sacrificed portions of himself, bit by bit to become more the clockwork horror he now is. A new clockwork mechanism each time that further tangles and reweaves his allotted fate within the Wyrd, leaving less and less of the man behind he once was.
His eyes are said to be nothing more than intricate gears within gears, whirling away as it gauges the life of everything it sees, measuring out it's allotted time so he may use it himself. His flesh, old, withered, preserved rather than truly alive. His blood gone to sand, his heart nothing more than an arcane hourglass. To most he's akin to the Grim Reaper itself, his presence eerily timed, sickle or pistol poised to either cut or complicate ones life.
